


... Is a Boy Forever

by Jane St Clair (3jane)



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-05
Updated: 2011-08-05
Packaged: 2017-10-22 06:30:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/234934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/3jane/pseuds/Jane%20St%20Clair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tom Paris remembers a night he spent as a teenager and<br/>fragments of an afternoon spent in New Zealand.  Leaning slightly<br/>towards costume slut fantasy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	... Is a Boy Forever

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: this is so old that I'm not even sure how old it is. It reads like it was written by a teenager, and it probably was. Take that as a caveat as to quality.
> 
> This is not a happy story. It contains implied (consensual and  
> non-) sexual situations, and some violence, as well as gratuitous  
> profanity and escapism. Also Paris angst, because it's just so easy.
> 
> Translation from the Russian courtesy of the Canonical List of  
> International Swearing. The title and complete quotation are drawn from  
> my beloved copy of "The Little Lavender Book on the Love That Once Dared  
> Not Speak Its Name" (shoulda seen my mother's face when I brought that  
> one home...)

On Voyager, Tom dreams of the rave he went to in Kiev.

It's fantastic, he can feel his seventeen-year-old body erotic around  
him in black leather and silver cloth.  There's silver glitter on his  
cheeks and in his hair, around his eyes.  This is as beautiful as he's  
ever going to be.  He loves it.

The music is undefinable.  It has the ragged edge of four-century old  
Soviet industrial art, mixed with a compelling beat and radiating waves  
of bass through his body.  It's good enough to eat, almost, that sound.    
He could live on it.  He dances on the edge of dehydration and  
exhaustion in a city that was destroyed by Mongol hordes and Christian  
knights and Black Death and Nazi bombs and nuclear fire and was raised  
again.  Kiev feels, at this moment, like him, the was he feels.  You  
can't take it or him apart.

He dances alone because he's still seventeen and he knows he's beautiful  
and he doesn't give a shit about anything else.  He wants everyone to  
look at him.  Very likely they are.  See a blond boy perched on an  
industrial catwalk in an east Kiev ramshackle factory block, dressed in  
black and silver, moving like water and fascinated by the lights while  
the hands of the crowd ghost his body from a distance.

Tom turns, extends his arms above his head and runs one hand down the  
opposite forearm in a slow, sensual stretch.  Standing suddenly opposite  
him is a Bajoran in brown rebel leathers.  The Bajoran boy isn't  
dancing.  There's New Zealand light glancing off his earring.  He's  
irritated, he gestures at Tom, mouths, *Traitor*.  But Tom only thinks  
to himself that the Bajoran is angry because they were arrested, and  
he'll understand later that it wasn't Tom's fault.  As if he could have  
read the minds of Starfleet.  Getting arrested was a goddamned accident,  
nothing more.  The other part of Tom's brain says that the Maquis boy  
does not belong at the Kiev rave, but that information gets lost in the  
music and the dream and does not repeat itself.

His hands are painted silver and the music comes in black waves.  He  
should be getting ready now to drop onto the towering antique speakers  
and dance with that girl from Nairobi with the tribal scars on her  
cheekbones, the one he slept with later and she showed him the sun  
rising over the Kenyan highlands when he woke.  

But he isn't there, that's another Tom Paris who'll do that.  This Tom  
Paris is watching a two-hundred eighty pound Russain convict slam the  
Bajoran boy into a concrete New Zealand wall and initiate proceedings  
from which Tom's thirty-two-year-old brain shies away.  And when he  
screams at the bastard to stop, he only gets a snarl of Russian that  
could almost have come from any part of his Kiev memory. "*Tebya ne  
ebut, ti ne podmakhivai.*"  Mind your own business, boy.

/You're not being fucked so don't wiggle your ass./

And Tom runs back down the catwalk and dives for the speakers, thinking  
that he can still make it.  He doesn't see the Kenyan girl but she must  
be waiting, and she doesn't speak Russian and neither does he, so  
neither of them can possibly know what it was the Russian said to him.

  
Dance with me, beautiful girl.  I remember the indentations on your  
collar bone where the brass rings sat before you had them removed so you  
could travel off-world.  I remember the long, thin braids of your hair  
and the bells woven into those braids.  I remember the sound of your  
motion.

/You're not being - /

Kiss me, yes, like that, and tell me you love me, all silver and gold.    
Let me feel the ridges of your painless, lasered scars.  Run your long  
nails up my back, take off my shirt and drop it into the crowd like you  
did before.  Let me hear them scream and watch us like we're animals or  
gods.

Dance with me like this, so close our bodies touch from knee to  
shoulder.  I love you.  I lick your shoulder, taste brown chocolate body  
paint and the dark, sour edge of your skin.  You gnaw me at the base of  
my throat and come away with silver on your lips.  Nobody hurt me,  
please.

/ - fucked so don't - /

You never hurt me, I remember that.  Jesus, I wasn't very old, was I?    
You must have had five years on me, at least.  You'd come back from  
twenty months on a freighter doing border runs to Romulan territory.    
You tasted like space.  You tasted like Africa.  You told me I was  
beautiful.

I remember before you called me your beautiful northern boy, blond as  
Kiev, but I didn't look Slavic to you.  You asked me if I was Irish.  I  
said I was American.  You said, of course, you should have known.  You  
kissed me on the mouth.  Dance with me again.

We danced on the speakers in front of everybody and you traced all over  
my body with those fingernails of yours.  You could have been tattooing  
me, marking your ownership on me.  I wouldn't have objected.  It would  
have been good to be yours.

/ - wiggle your ass. /

What was it you said, laughing?  A thing of beauty is a boy forever.

Come on, beautiful.  Let's get out of here.

  
On Voyager, before morning, Tom cries very quietly.


End file.
